


We Will Come Back Home

by Autumntouched



Series: Runaways Running the Night [2]
Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26318536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autumntouched/pseuds/Autumntouched
Summary: One shot sequel to Runaways Running the Night. W.D. is reunited with his father, giving Anne hope for her own growing family. You don't have to have read Runaways Running the Night to follow We Will Come Back Home.
Relationships: Phillip Carlyle & Anne Wheeler, Phillip Carlyle/Anne Wheeler
Series: Runaways Running the Night [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1912312
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	We Will Come Back Home

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Anne and Phillip are finally having a baby...For those jumping in without reading Runaways Running the Night, Anne and W.D. were born into slavery on the Wheeler Plantation in South Carolina. W.D.'s father was lost in a card game before Anne was born. At the end of Runaways, with a stable location and his younger sister married, W.D. begins the search for his father.

A cold, early spring rain pelted the windows of the uptown mansion and drummed against the stately exterior. Inside, the muted rhythm of the poor weather lulled the inhabitants into an unhurried pace. A friendly fire flapped and popped away in the library hearth. 

Anne Carlyle sat with her feet propped up and her book forgotten beside her on the sofa. Fey, their Irish Setter, rested her head on what was left of Anne’s shrinking lap and sighed contentedly as Anne stroked her silky ears. A flutter answered the dog’s gratitude. Hopefully, Anne rested a hand over her swollen middle but there was no further response. 

Her disappointment surprised her. It had taken some time for her to come around to the idea of children. When she could be honest with herself, being a mother terrified her. W.D. was the only semblance of a parent she’d ever known. She’d barely ever held a baby. And life was complicated enough just being married to Phillip.

All of this led her to hesitate so long in telling Phillip about her condition that, fearing her to be dangerously ill, he’d summoned a doctor for her in the middle of the night. Fortunately, the man had a generous sense of humor. He left behind a mortified Anne and bemused Phillip to sort out their happy news. 

She glanced toward her husband at his desk where he scratched away at a new play and felt a pang of deep love at the recollection. Phillip was too thrilled by the thought of a coming baby to hold her clumsiness against her. He was gentle with her tears, patient with her anger—most of the time, and managed to rein in his desire to hover and coddle. Which was more than likely how she’d ended up with a puppy who cried so constantly and loudly for her in its first few days that her bed was now within sight of theirs. What Anne would not allow Phillip to do, Fey did for him.

She followed Anne everywhere. When she could, she curled up on and around her.  Or possibly, Phillip brought home a puppy to cheer up Anne after her cat Zipporah died, and she’d sobbed tragically all night. 

As if feeling her eyes on him, Phillip glanced up from his writing. The look was nervous and placating. Right, she’d come in to read without saying a word after ignoring him over breakfast because he had the gall to eat the last of the strawberry preserves. Never mind that she usually preferred blue or blackberry or that strawberry was his favorite. 

What was wrong with her?!

“I was just thinking about how much I love you,” she told him as an opening to an apology.

The tension eased out of his face, but his brilliant blue eyes were still wary. “Enough to forgive me for the strawberries?”

“Enough not to let strawberries come between us,” she amended, then smiled and said shyly, “I’m sorry.”

Phillip set his pen down and flexed his fingers. “I’m sure I’ll commit enough infractions over the next week for the strawberries to be forgotten, eventually.” He left his desk to join her where she sat on the sofa. 

Anne winced. “Am I really that awful?”

Phillip tilted her chin up so she could see how earnest he was. “Some days you’re the worst,” he confided. Despite his honesty, a hint of amusement dulled the edge of his words. “There’s no pleasing you and mad or angry as I get, I can’t help loving you as dearly in my exasperation.” 

Although he looked at her with nothing but adoration, Anne felt properly chastised. “That sounds horrid, Phin. I promise I’ll try not to be so difficult.”

He perched on the arm of the sofa. “I’ll remind you of that promise next time,” he agreed. Phillip reached out to cover her hand over her middle. “You and her, you’re all I want to think about day in and day out. Everything else feels like a distraction.”

Anne could not understand Phillip’s desperate desire for a daughter, but she could see in his eyes that whatever the baby ended up being, he would have no will against it. This time, when she felt a flutter, it was her own excitement as her husband’s hand slid firmly over her stomach. There were moments, like these, when she felt so cocooned in his unflagging love that the extent to which she depended on it terrified her.

“I forgive you for the strawberries,” Anne blurted breathlessly. With a chuckle, Phillip leaned in and kissed her mouth. His was so warm, his lips firm in their caress. She could feel his smile as he accepted her apology and assured her all could be forgiven. His arm slid along the sofa behind her to brace himself as he deepened their kiss. Anne curled her fingers into the lapel of his jacket to tuck herself more tightly into him. Firm fingers skimmed the back of her neck and wound their way into her hair.

Fey relinquished Anne’s lap with a short, scolding huff. Ears filled with the eager, uneven rush of Phillip’s breathing and dizzying rhythm of her own pulse, Anne let herself be swept away on the waves of her own desire. She tugged him down beside her. Phillip did his best not to topple into her, but they were crushed together, her throbbing breast pressed into his side. His other hand slid over her hip, along her rear, and grasped her thigh. 

Their heady exchange was interrupted by a knock. Both Anne and Phillip looked toward the door, contemplating pretending not to hear this intrusion. Fey wagged her tail as if grateful someone had the decency to recall her owners from their distraction. She pawed at the door.

The second knock made Phillip break away from her. He scrambled back onto the arm of the sofa. Twice meant urgent. “You may enter,” he called. 

Most of their staff had worked for them long enough to no longer be embarrassed by so clearly interrupting an intimate moment. Anne was poised, but Phillip’s flushed cheeks gave them away. Crispin opened the door, grabbing expertly for Fey’s collar before she bolted past him. 

Tall and lanky with auburn hair close to the color of the dog’s coat, Crispin nearly had to fold himself in half to keep hold of the wriggling puppy. Whining in protest, she swatted at his leg. He was entirely unfazed by these antics. “Mrs. Carlyle, there’s a man here to see you. He gave his name as Walter Wheeler.” 

That name slammed any inclination to return to their prior activity from Anne’s mind. Her feet slipped from their stool. For several years, Phillip and W.D. had been sending letters to and visiting aid societies in the hope of finding W.D.’s father. The only clues they had were his name and that he’d been a blacksmith on the Wheeler plantation some time before the war.  Heart racing, Anne scooted forward to push herself up, but Phillip gripped her arm. “Let me go to him first.” 

“No,” she protested, “you might scare him.”

“Scare him?”

“What’s he going to think in this big house when a white man he’s never seen before starts interrogating him?” Mr. Wheeler was probably already dreading the mistake he’d made coming here. Why did they have such a ridiculous house, and why couldn’t W.D. be satisfied living with them instead of moving from place to place downtown! Why didn’t anyone listen to her or take what she said into consideration? And Mr. Wheeler was probably soaked from traveling in this weather. 

Fey yipped and barked, tugging against Crispin’s hold on her. 

“Crispin, please prepare a room and find a set of clothes for him while  _ we _ talk to him,” Anne huffed as she levered herself to her feet. Also, how had she taken her agility for granted before this? 

“Anne, be reasonable,” Phillip pleaded

“I am. And Fey, stop it!” That quieted both their protests. “Where is Mr. Wheeler?”

“In the entryway, Mrs. Carlyle.”

“Bring him—,” she started.

“Here,” Phillip instructed. “He must be freezing, and there’s already a fire here. You should take Fey. Put her in a guest room in case she decides to misbehave.”

“Very good.” Crispin and Fey left them in taut silence. Beyond the door, the dog whined in protest at being put away. 

“What if he’s not who he says he is?” Phillip said tersely.

“We probably should send for W.D.,” Anne worried, pacing. 

“Anne!” 

“What if it’s him?” She stopped and looked her protesting husband straight in the eye. The fire was a little too warm on her back, but she refused to give up ground.

He ran a hand over his face. “Can we discuss this?”

“He’ll be here in a moment, and you’re not meeting him without me.” 

Phillip glanced down the bodice of her hunter dress where the line of off-center buttons stopped short to allow for her now visible bump. This argument was for the baby’s sake then. He probably wouldn’t have said a word otherwise.

Anne folded her arms over this Achilles heel. “Should I pull down one of those swords in case I need to defend myself?” Phillip glanced up over the fireplace at the Bailey family heirlooms, a set of swords that were a remnant of his connection with his mother. 

“You promised not to be difficult anymore,” he countered mischievously.

Caught off guard, Anne’s lips parted for a retort that didn’t come fast enough. “I’m not being difficult,” she sniffed. “Just practical.”

They were still in their standoff when Crispin ushered their visitor in. At the sight of him, Anne had no doubt who he was, although he contemplated her with suspicion. “Your visitor, Mr. Wheeler, Mrs. Carlyle,” Crispin announced.

W.D.’s father was as tall as her brother with an even sturdier build that had not diminished with age. Though creased, his forehead had the same regal bearing as his son’s. They also shared the same high cheekbones. Deep crows feet cradled his cloudy but keen black eyes. His dark hair and beard were flecked with gray and white but had not fully succumbed to either. The fingers clutching his hat were worn and scarred with hard work. 

“Crispin, please send someone to get W.D.,” Phillip said to break the vibrating silence.

“Right away,” and Crispin was gone. 

Unsure where to begin when she did not know if he’d even known she existed until recently, Anne found herself at a loss for words. Fortunately, Phillip came to her aid. “Come in and dry yourself by the fire, Mr. Wheeler,” he offered. He crossed to Anne and gently tugged her aside so there was space for W.D.’s father. 

The elder Wheeler ducked his head. “My shoes is muddy, sir.” 

Anne recovered her manners. “I’m W.D.’s younger sister, Anne. I don’t know if you, um, knew about me.” Belatedly, she added, “And this is my husband, Phillip. He’s been helping W.D. and me search for you.”

Mr. Wheeler shuffled his hat through his hands. “This your house, ma’am?”

“I’m just Anne. W.D.’s sister,” she begged. “And yes, this is my house.” Her cheeks heated. What did he make of her? Of them?

He nodded thoughtfully. “Not what I was expectin’,” he said, almost to himself.

“You’re soaked. Come dry in front of the fire. Never mind the mud,” Anne insisted to change the subject. 

Mr. Wheeler stepped carefully around the rug to take the proffered spot. Despite his size, he looked small in the decadent room with its imposing wood paneled walls, lush persian rugs, and towering shelves of books. Anne was suddenly overly conscious of her own fashionable gown and wished she’d opted for one of her less fussy dresses. 

Phillip fetched a chair for Mr. Wheeler so they could all sit. W.D.’s father stayed close to the fire while Phillip and Anne resumed their seats on the sofa, this time far less intimately. 

“Thank you for your hospitality. You’re probably wond’rin how I found y’all,” he offered. 

“If you don’t mind telling us twice because W.D. will want to know,” Anne agreed. “He’s been to Philadelphia and Washington, DC several times in hope of finding you. But first, would you like something to eat?”

“I’m jes fine. Thank you...Anne.” 

She smiled and his face became a little less guarded. “If you change your mind, let us know.”

“That’s very kind of you.” He plucked at the brim of his rain darkened hat. Anne tried to keep herself from fidgeting while she waited for him to speak. They had written so many letters, some unanswered, others with only disappointing news. W.D. remained stoic about each dead end, but Anne had felt his hope diminishing with each passing year.

And now, his father was here! In the flesh. She couldn’t help staring, trying to commit to memory this sudden link to a life and people she knew only through her brother’s fuzzy and narrow memories. Walter Wheeler stared back at her no less intently, but what he was thinking remained inscrutable.

Just as she was weighing prompting him, he began. “I was in Baltimore, workin’ at the docks. I knew abou’ you, Anne. Word got around what was goin’ on at Wheeler’s and then that you’d all been sold. Your mama tried to get a message to me that she was runnin’, but it took too long and by the time I got it, she was gone. Next I hear, she been captured and you and your brother drowned in some river on your way to freedom. I thought I’d go and murder massa the night I found out, but God kept me from it. That’s when I decided, though, I wasn’t stayin’ put no more. I was gonna take Esther with me on my run to freedom, but when I got to her, they’d punished her real bad.” 

Mr. Wheeler’s face tensed at the memory of the state he’d found her mother in. Anne felt Phillip glance at her, but she couldn’t look away from this rare and precious glimpse of her mother, even if it was probing at the place in her heart where she’d closed away the woman she could not remember. Mr. Wheeler’s shaking fingers went to his mouth. “Your mama, she was real beautiful. Her looks was okay, but she had this being like the earth whispered to her the wonder and secrets of all its good things. And those secrets would fly on the notes of her songs, and they’d say her voice alone could convince the tobacco to grow. When she laughed, nobody could help but join in because it would start real soft like she didn’t want you to know about it. But then it’d light up her eyes so bright until she couldn’t hold it in and her whole body’d start to sway with it even before you heard its music. But that night I went to her, there she was lyin’ on that pallet like a husk shorn from its cob. Like she didn’t have no purpose anymore. Told me she’d just slow me down, and when I promised to carry her, she started screaming until I ran so I didn’t get caught. I don’t know what happened to her after that.”

A heavy tear plopped onto Anne’s bosom. Another quickly followed. Phillip pressed a handkerchief into her hand. She accepted it gratefully to wipe her running nose. From Mr. Wheeler’s earlier description, Anne tried to form a picture of her mother, one that didn’t include the horrific image of a back torn ragged with whipping. 

“Perhaps we ought to stop,” Phillip suggested. Mr. Wheeler also looked concerned as he emerged from his own reverie. 

“No! No!” Anne pleaded. “I just—how tall was she?”

“She came up to my shoulder, but anyone woulda told you she was taller’an me. She was always bigger than the body God gave her.” 

Mr. Wheeler glanced at Phillip who shrugged helplessly. Anne hurriedly scrubbed away her tears so they’d believe she could continue. She now had more to remember her mother by than the void in her life. 

Phillip reached for her hand and wound his fingers through hers, wet as they were. His grip was warm and firm. W.D.’s father glanced down at their joined hands until Phillip drew him back to his story. “You escaped then?”

Mr. Wheeler nodded. “I made it to Philadelphia safe. Got myself set up there. I could read and write a little, but I learned more. Changed my name to Walter Jordan. That’s why y’all had trouble findin’ me. Didn’t think anybody’d be lookin’ for me but my massa. I got work at a smithy, made decent money for a long time. But when my boss passed on to the good Lord, the shop was sold and the new owner didn’t care to have me around. I couldn’t find a job until a friend of mine says his cousin in Baltimore can get us work on the docks. So I been there. I was there when a young man comes to see me one day. Tells me he works with an aid society in Philadelphia and that he thinks someone’s been looking for me for some time. Well, I didn’t know who he could mean.”

“So I asked. Says his sister got hold of some letters to the society from two important men in New York. She’d taken it upon herself to track down hard cases so she started goin’ through every one of the society’s records and makin’ inquiries about anyone from South Carolina. Wrote dozens of letters. She even had ladies in the church helping her. Until finally someone remembers my story, which I ain’t told many people. And she uses that to find me. Then the man shows me the sketch you sent them. And I think I seen a ghost, but I knew it was W.D. I was fairly sure. So I tell him, I was once Walter Wheeler and he says, well then, we best figure out how to get you to your son.” 

“They gave me money to come to New York, and I went straight to the aid society, and they gave me your address. I came here yesterday and thought they must be mistaken, so I went back. But they insisted this was the right place. Well then, I figured Mr. Carlyle was your employer, begging your pardon, Anne, and I went lookin’ for you in the kitchen. But the cook tells me you the woman of the house, and then I thought I ought to just leave.” Mr. Wheeler—Jordan—reached inside his worn coat and withdrew a twine bound stack of letters. “But I figure anyone writin’ askin’ abou’ me this much might be disappointed if I just gave up.”

Nervously, he tapped the correspondence against his palm, waiting for their reaction. Too overwhelmed for words, Anne went to him and cradled his weathered face in her hands. He blinked up at her, his own eyes shining with tears, and she placed a lingering kiss on his forehead.

“I’m glad you found us,” she whispered, voice hoarse with the elation and sorrow and relief she was trying to restrain. 

His hands circled her forearms, sturdy and protective. Warmth, not from the fire, emanated around them and began to forge the bond between them. “If only I’d known. Believe me, if I hadn’t believed you was dead nothin woulda stopped me tryin’ to find you.”

Their tears mingled on his cheeks. “I know,” Anne promised. 

“Esther left Anne and W.D. with a traveling circus. It was a long time before they lived anywhere long enough to search for you,” Phillip explained behind them. “And then they’d been too young to remember much.”

“Really nothing,” Anne croaked. She sniffed. “W.D. doesn’t remember much about Mama, and he’ll talk about anything except the things that hurt him. I feel like I know her a little better now.”

Mr. Jordan reluctantly released her as if he wanted to hold on much longer. “You intense like her. People can feel you even in your silence.” 

Anne stepped back and a strand of the warmth she’d felt from him followed. It was not her right, but this man felt as close as she’d ever come to having a father. If only he were hers too. 

As if seeing a hint of these thoughts on her face, Mr. Jordan took her hand. In his, hers felt small. The safety of the weight of his grip engulfed all of her. And like a child she’d never had the chance to be, Anne began to sob. 

“I’m sorry,” she gasped, although she wasn’t sure whether she was apologizing for this display, the betrayal of her parentage, how long it took them to find him, or her desperate desire that he could look upon her as his kin. 

A dark stream in the wavering curtain of her tears, he grew until he enclosed her, pulling her tightly into his arms. Earthy sweat mingled with the smell of wet wool and a whiff of a harbor. Her arms folded up under his arms and held onto his sturdy shoulders. 

“You ain’t got nothing to be sorry for Anne.” His deep voice reverberated against her own chest. He rocked her gently and let her cry against him with her head tucked under his chin.

Who would she be had this man looked over her sleep each night? What would W.D. be like if he’d had that lap to crawl into instead of being the one to offer up his little legs for her to sit on? Her fingers dug into Mr. Jordan’s coat, and she wanted to beg him to stay. 

That was W.D.’s choice, and this was not her father. 

“I’ll take her now,” she eventually heard Phillip say. 

W.D.’s father patted her back. “You about cried yourself out here. Why don’t you go have a lie down?”

Anne searched his lined face. “Will you leave?”

“We can’t send him off without supper,” Phillip promised gently. Anne allowed herself to be relinquished. Phillip had rarely held her so carefully, as if she were a sliver of crystal that could shatter at the slightest pressure. Everything had left her wrung out and exhausted, and she needed no coaxing from either of them to excuse herself. 

“If you’ll wait here, I’ll be back soon,” Phillip told Mr. Jordan as he guided Anne from the library. She wanted to make plans for W.D.’s father to stay, but as they climbed the stairs to their bedroom, Phillip gently persuaded her that all could wait. Her head barely made it to the pillow before she slipped into empty, spent slumber.

A gentle stroke over her shoulder called her awake. The lamps glowed softly against the drawn curtains. She emerged out of her deep sleep to greet Phillip’s worried expression. 

“I knew you wouldn’t forgive me if I didn’t wake you for supper,” he told her, “but I think it may be better for you to rest, dove.” 

Her face was tight and stiff with dried tears. She didn’t like the pinched lines around his eyes and mouth, but his love covered her like a second blanket. Instead of supper, she wanted to pull him around her. Phillip’s expression softened slightly, and he perched on the bed within the curve of her body.

“How do you feel? I can call a doctor.”

As the afternoon rushed back to her, one concern rose above the rest. “Mr. Jordan?”

“He’s still here,” Phillip reassured her. “He and W.D. spent the afternoon in the library.” Seeing her try to rise, he laid a hand on her hip. “They won’t leave until you feel well enough to see them. Rest again if you need to—you had quite a shock this afternoon. We’ll wait.”

But Anne couldn’t stand the idea of staying upstairs any longer while her brother and his father waited below. Phillip needed some convincing to believe it was not best for her to remain abed, but finally she won him over. He hovered while she cleaned her face of salt and changed into something less fussy. Her hair had managed to survive her nap. Just a few pins returned it to presentable. 

Their—her—argument over strawberry preserves that morning seemed so far away and long ago. Almost another world. The pale Anne that stared anxiously back at her from the mirror’s glass was a slight stranger, someone she might have glimpsed once in passing. 

This Anne knew more about where and who she came from. She was struggling to shape the newly found pieces of her mother into an image that she could hold onto. Such a cruel coincidence of fate that both she and W.D. looked like their fathers and nothing like the woman who bound them. But Mr. Jordan also said he felt Esther in her. From the strands that she’d been able to gather, it seemed the performer in her was what belonged to her mother. 

Phillip’s face appeared over her shoulder. She watched and felt his arms encircle her, inviting her to rest against his steady support. “You’re sure you’re up to this?” he asked quietly into her neck.

“What’s W.D. been like?”

“I think he’s still trying to wrap his head around it all, but he seems happy.”

That was good. Her brother was not one to dwell on his problems, but he must have so many questions now that his father was here.

Phillip placed a kiss beneath her ear. “Mr. Jordan still doesn’t understand what you both do for a living.”

Wondering if she could manage a demonstration, Anne glanced down. For awhile, she’d been able to work, but her balance was changing. Suddenly moves she’d spent most of her life doing without a thought required her to work her way through them again. Her act was scaled back and limited to once a week, although Phillip was urging her to stop performing altogether. He knew better than to try to keep her from practicing.

“Supper?” he reminded her. Briefly, she leaned her head into his. He squeezed her more tightly. 

“I’ve kept everyone waiting long enough.”

Laughter rippled out of the living room where W.D. lounged and Mr. Jordan looked more at ease than earlier. Someone thankfully had found him a set of dry clothes. Mr. Jordan started to rise when Anne and Phillip entered, but W.D. waved him back into his seat.

“They’re not much for formalities ‘round here, grand as their place is,” W.D. assured his father. However, her brother got up to give her a hug. It was a little harder than usual. Fey followed W.D. over to offer her own greeting. Anne rewarded the dog with a quick scratch under her jaw. 

“Maybe your father’s hungry,” Anne retorted. W.D. beamed at the reference. “I know I am.”

Mr. Jordan took in the three of them. A funny group they must be with Phillip’s undiminished aristocratic bearing, Anne’s bohemian sensibilities, and W.D.’s committed but finely made laborer’s practicality. What did he make of who these two grown children had become in the world?

If he had any doubts, Mr. Jordan kept them to himself. “I am feelin’ a bit hungry if you don’t mind. If I could get a bite in the kitchen—.” 

“Certainly not,” Phillip interrupted. “You’re our guest of honor.” 

Mr. Jordan looked about ready to fall out of his seat at the declaration. “I don’t mean to impose upon your family,” he stammered.

“You are family,” W.D. said simply. “Let’s eat. You’ll love Mrs. Norton’s cooking.”

Hoping to put W.D.’s father at ease, Anne went along with her brother’s levity. “She spoils you. I’m sure as soon as she learned you were on your way over, she whipped up your favorites. Shall we, Mr. Jordan?” 

Anne arranged the table so that Phillip sat at the head with her to his right and W.D. to his left. Mr. Jordan sat next to her brother. Noticing Mr. Jordan’s bewilderment at the elaborate place setting before him, she asked Abel to clear all but the necessary utensils for each of them. 

“I’d rather we all enjoy Mrs. Norton’s cooking than worry about what we eat it with,” she explained. “W.D. and I grew up with hardly a fork between us and know a good meal tastes just as good with or without one.”

“I thought you mighta forgot those days, comfortable as you are now,” W.D. teased.

"Far from it,” Phillip came to her defense. “I never hear the end of my extravagances.”

As Anne predicted, Mrs. Norton made nearly all of W.D.’s seasonal favorites. W.D. was not the only one their cook doted on. Anne practically had her own plate, an indication that Mrs. Norton worried she wasn’t eating properly. As long as she kept a careful eye out for Anne, the cook could burn the house down for all Phillip cared. She would still be one of the best paid in the city.

Mr. Jordan sat stiffly as he was served but seemed to relax as supper went on. He wanted to know more about Anne and then, shyly, Phillip. W.D. eased any tension with amusing stories of their childhood. He and Anne hadn’t had much except their freedom and one another, but they had made the most of both. W.D.’s father had his own memories, like the time W.D. managed to make himself sick after drinking a bottle of molasses. They learned more about their mother, laughing at how she tricked a vain woman into dying her hair blue. 

Their guest also brought with him knowledge of their extended family. Apparently he saw traces of Anne’s mother’s sister Bea in her face, which elated her. They had cousins and grandmothers. Mr. Jordan did not know what became of their aunt and her children, but Anne began to feel less and less that she’d popped into being one day and more as if she had roots. There were people that she and W.D. belonged to and a place they’d come from, even if they couldn’t remember. 

Phillip said little as they lingered at the table long after the meal and then dessert was cleared. Instead, he leaned forward on his folded hands, listening intently. Anne tried to make out what he thought of discovering so much of her past. He laughed readily with them, but at quieter moments, his gaze swept over her as if he expected her to succumb to her tears again. The baby also seemed to worry, shifting restlessly. Anne rubbed her middle wondering if their little one could feel her the way she felt it.

At last, Mr. Jordan raised an eyebrow at W.D. “You ready, son? I don’t want to burden your sister’s hospitality.” 

W.D. beamed at the new moniker. “Sure. It’s getting on in the night.”

Phillip held up a hand. “There’s no rush for either of you to leave. You’re more than welcome to stay the night here. We have plenty of room.”

“More than enough,” Anne added hopefully.

W.D. turned to his father. “What do you think...Papa? Their beds are a lot more comfortable than mine. More space here too.”

“Well, I, uh,” Mr. Jordan once again looked small and at a loss. “I wasn’t expectin’ to be put up.”

“It would be our pleasure,” Phillip assured Mr. Jordan. “Our carriage can take you to the train station tomorrow so you don’t have to walk through the mud.” 

“They wouldn’t have such a big house if they didn’t mean to fill it,” W.D. quipped. He grinned widely, knowing he was out of Anne’s kicking range. 

Anne glared at her brother. “I hope you’ll come back, Mr. Jordan, to help me keep him in line.” 

Mr. Jordan deftly reached out and twisted W.D.’s ear, earning a yelp that reversed the direction of Anne’s frown. “I just might have to stick around for that.” 

W.D. grimaced and rubbed his ear. “Just so long as you don’t always take her side!” 

“Anne seems like the sensible one of you two.” His father's eyes twinkled.  


Phillip let out an undignified snort. “Not if you eat her strawberry preserves.” 

“Phillip!” Anne cried at the same time W.D. demanded, “What did Annie do?” 

She buried her face in her hands while Phillip recounted the spectacular storm that had followed his innocent mistake that morning. “Don’t worry, Mr. Jordan,” he finished, “I paid a pretty penny afterward to make sure you’ll be able to enjoy any strawberry preserves with your breakfast in peace tomorrow.” 

They all laughed at her expense, even the baby who thumped against her womb, but it was deserved and seemed to decide Mr. Jordan on staying with them. Fey accompanied them to the living room and curled up by Anne. It was then that Anne learned her brother had cried upon meeting his father and asked him to stay. There was no trace of W.D.'s earlier emotion, but Anne knew he'd found a part of himself that had been missing. Phillip offered to help Mr. Jordan move to New York, if he wanted to be closer to his family. There were plenty of jobs at the circus. 

Anne and Phillip retired well into the night but insisted W.D. and his father remain up as late as they wanted. Intrigued by their guest, Fey decided to stay too. When Anne glanced back on their way out, the dog was sprawled at Mr. Jordan’s feet.

“Maybe W.D. will finally settle down now,” Anne mused as she climbed into bed. In the darkness, she could just make out Phillip propped up on his pillow. 

“I’m sure Phoebe will be glad of that.” 

“Then he can go fill his  _ own _ house,” Anne grumbled, then swore as her knee got caught in her nightgown. Trying to tug her clothes free, she lost her balance and fell onto Phillip. He grunted in pain. 

“Sorry!” she gasped. 

Phillip held her against him as he shifted onto his back, leaving Anne across on his chest. He rubbed slow circles over her abdomen. Their little caterpillar thumped back. Its movements seemed to be becoming more deliberate. “I  _ like  _ filling our house.” 

Anne encouraged his hand higher. “Exactly what part of filling our house do you like?”

Phillip’s thumb stroked the underside of her breast then sent an undulation of shivers down her back as it brushed and circled her nipple. “Can’t say I’ve quite put my finger on that part yet,” he murmured huskily. He pulled her up to kiss her deeply. “I guess we’ll have to see.” 

"I might have some ideas." Anne guided his mouth back to hers. 

**Author's Note:**

> I love Anne and Phillip so much that I had to come back for more. Hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
